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Just like candy.
I pop a pill and this tightly wound mortal coil unravels, muscle dissolving against bone, skin slinking off as my tongue drags against my teeth.
Bubblegum pink, canary yellow, and my favorite: sky blue. For a guy who never sees it, I sure spend a lot of my time flat on my back, tasting robins egg blue and cloud watching.
Benzos.
I’ve got a drug of choice, and she’s a bad relationship to have.
Benzos will put you in a dark room, with a nasty secret to hide in your pocket, and a story that you can’t write home about. She’s the drug they warn you about, not a crazy party kind, but that bookish type that will leave you in a women’s restroom, panting and heaving your guts out, groaning her name.
Benzos will put you on a bender. She’ll make your hands tremble and your tongue loose. She’ll show you a good time, and she’ll show you hell.
She’s my other woman. She’s all mine, she’s my habit. She’s got an innocent wrapper, but a dreamy sweetness. I l picture a blonde. Those big librarian glasses, in a pencil skirt and stilettos, with medical textbooks clasped to her chest. It’s a craving, not a crush.
It’s an affair, not an addiction. Even when I’m sitting in an apartment across town. Even when it’s eleven and there’s a six am shift. Even with nothing in my stomach and nothing in my head, I hear her calling my name.
I scrubbed my hand down my face, rummaging in the pocket of my sweatpants. My stash ran out two days ago. I miss her. I pressed my nose to the plastic, inhaling the smell. Benzodiazepine has a particular smell. Clean. Chemical. It’s an aphrodisiac, practically.
I turned the bag inside out, inhaling and running my tongue along the seam until my breathing fogged the plastic and condensation dripped down. Acts of service, for the sake of the relationship.
My head fell back. My mortal coil remained tightly wound, steadily winding around itself until the strain would work itself into my brain.
The issue with sedatives—as someone self righteous would be happy to tell me—is that there is a slight paradoxical element to them.
I popped my last benzo with cold black coffee, casual as McKay did with her ibuprofen. I had a compound fraction leg to set, I needed the help. Or so I had guessed.
I laughed as the bone squelched back into skin. Collins looked at me sideways. Mel twisted her fingers.
And now that I was experiencing muscle tension, anxious thoughts, and tremors, I could really use that benzo.
It was icy cold, but I was burning with a fever and sweating through my clothes. I’d already had a freezing showerI pulled my shirt over my head, throwing it in the vague direction of my bedroom.
I pulled out my phone, checking my texts.
My parents had asked what weekend I was free for the kids. All the more reason to refill. If I was this bad without them, I couldn’t have four year olds seeing it. Ironic. I had been so anti-drug in college, I didn’t have any contacts to text. Besides, I preferred a medical prescription. Ethically sourced, and less likely to leave me in a foaming mess in my bathtub.
But that was sounding more and more appealing by the moment.
I squinted through my blurry vision at a text from Mel. She texted like a cartoon character. Hey boss! Smiley face. Checking in on you as soon as I can get my sister settled at home. Yellow heart. Bringing cupcakes. Cupcake.
I could almost imagine her with her face inches from the glass, eyebrows scrunched up and eyes wide behind her big glasses, trying to pick between carrot cake and red velvet.
My headache was getting worse. I stood, almost sitting back down immediately as my head swam. I shook my head and walked into my bedroom.
Small bed. Grey bedspread. White pillows. Some plants. A rug from the old apartment. I gave almost everything away after the funeral and the move. Abby had a lingering smell, crayons and Chanel.
I picked up the discarded shirt and dropped it in my hamper. No one to pick up after me. Bad habits. I splashed cold water on my face, swallowing some of it. I didn’t realize how dehydrated I was. Rather than bother with a glass, I stuck my mouth under the faucet and drank until the metallic aftertaste was too much.
My hands trembled as I gripped the counter. I really needed something. My pulse throbbed against my neck. My legs ached like I had run a marathon.
And worst of all, I didn’t really seem to care.
There was a knock on my door. Tentative, a little patter of the knuckles. Mel. I threw the bag in the trash and opened the door. And there she was, holding cupcakes.
Huh.
I’d only seen her in scrubs. Hair scraped back into a braid, face pale underneath neon lights, she’d been neatly categorized in my brain in the same section as a scalpel. Clinical. Useful. Interesting, in the sort of way a complex machine is. Not that it put me off. I was always interested by her.
She had her hair down, which I now realized was a soft blonde. Her features were sharp, dark eyes defined by mascara, wearing the faintest residuals of lipstick. Her glasses stayed on, I was glad to see.
White Irish knit sweater. Jeans. Bizarre.
“Hey,” I said, with the fullest intention of being casual.
She was definitely not looking at my face, “Uh…hi?”
She looked away, “Dr. Langdon, are you having a medical emergency?”
Right. I forgot to put on a shirt.
“Oh,” I said quickly, leaving the door open for her to come in as I went back into my bedroom for a new shirt, “Sorry, no, I just came out of the shower.”
“That makes sense,” she said, coming in and closing the door behind her, “Gym?”
“Yeah,” I pulled it over my head, “Helps me get my mind off things. I don’t need sleep that much so it’s…a good way to get tired. You?”
She sat on the edge of my couch, watching me with a blank expression. “Hmm?” She said after a moment, “Oh! Yes. I do yoga and Pilates. Very therapeutic for me.”
“Calming environments,” I nodded, “I can see that.”
“You have a lovely apartment,” she added, gesturing vaguely, “The plants—they’re nice.”
“Thanks,” I said, opening my fridge, “My late wife, she was a plant freak. I gave a lot of them away, but she willed her favorites to me.”
“It’s very sweet that she gave you something to remember her by.”
“You want a glass of wine?” I suggested, cutting her off, “I’ve got some Pinot, and I’d hate to drink alone.”
She smiled, fingers tangled, “I’d be happy to.”
…
Was he trying to get me drunk?
I’d already had a glass at the restaurant, something dry and disgusting. My date had recommended it, and I couldn’t exactly tell him I didn’t like it. Two glasses seemed enough to get me tipsy, but Langdon hated to drink alone…
Sprawled out on his leather couch, in his sweatpants, holding his glass loosely between two fingers, I felt overdressed, uneven, and undersized. My clothes were the result of two weeks of planning. Soft, comfortable. Not sexual. So clearly not sexual.
Langdon was wearing a shirt now, but he hadn’t before. I shouldn’t have commented, but I couldn’t help it. Standing in the doorframe, wet from his shower. It was distracting. It shouldn’t have been distracting.
I’d seen the human body far too often to stare. Medical textbooks since I was six, cadavers since I was nineteen. Skin was skin. I was better than staring.
I definitely stared at him. Over the thousands of men I’d treated, I’d learned the signs of steroids. Muscle growth that was unnatural, grotesque. Langdon didn’t have those signs. He was lean, with the hard lines of muscle across his chest and arms.
All of it beating with blood and not cold and coagulated, I wanted to trace the path of them, tell him to move this way and that, manipulate the muscle to study it. To understand it.
He’d let me, wouldn’t he? Langdon was sweet. Sweet as candy.
If that wasn’t a crass thing to say.
I took a heavy sip of wine and nearly spilled it down my shirt.
“Easy, Mel,” he said, “We’ve got time.”
“Sorry,” I said, flushed, “I’m a klutz.”
“You’re in your own head,” he said, opening the box between us. He delicately picked up one of the cupcakes, “These must be your favorite.”
I smiled, “Lemon cream. The sprinkles are raspberry flavored.”
“Sweet tooth?” He asked, placing one on my side and taking one for himself.
I shrugged, “I know they’re childish, but I like the convenience. Cake is hard to eat.”
“Hmm,” he bit into one, “Not childish.”
He had icing on his cheek. I wanted to grab a napkin and wipe it off. I decided to leave my cupcake for a while and stick to wine.
His eyes met mine, “You said there was something we should discuss.”
I gulped, setting down my glass, “Right.”
How do you tell someone you stole their drugs?
Four days ago, I backed against his leg during a procedure. He laughed, hands steadying my waist and moving away. But I know what I felt.
Oh, not like that.
Pills. Years of medical school, and the texture is unmistakable. Residents kept their prescriptions in their lockers, and even the most avid ibuprofen users keep their supply in the kitchen, not in a plastic bag in their pocket.
My sister had an unfortunate habit of stealing small objects. It wasn’t malicious, and she always left them somewhere to be found, but I quickly got very good at quietly collecting the contents of her pockets without her noticing.
It was almost too easy to bump into him, hands slipping down into his pocket, grabbing his stash. I stuffed it in my scrubs and scrambled for the bathroom.
Benzos. I couldn’t think. The sweating. The impulsivity. The anger. Even the way he was nice to me could be a symptom. I didn’t think. I just grabbed a handful and flushed down the toilet.
I collided with him one last time. “Clumsy today, Mel?” He asked, hands on my shoulders, “You okay?”
I nodded, stuffing it back where I stole it. He didn’t even notice.
And now I was realizing that we were alone. And he was much taller than I was.
I’d never been strong in a profession that practically demanded it. That’s what made him such a good senior resident to me. He always helped with the larger patients, guided my hands, made space for me in the big procedures.
But even casually spread out on the couch, I knew he was twice my size and easily three times as strong. I had forgotten my taser and my mace. I could smile really cutely, but I didn’t think that would work. I had another idea, but that was a last resort.
…
She had her fingers twisted up in knots. Biting her lipstick off, trying to meet my eye. Trying not to meet my eye.
She took another trembling sip of wine. “Don’t be mad at me,” she gulped, licking her lips.
I raised my eyebrows. She noticed and hurried to explain.
“Well, you can be mad,” she said, “but you just can’t…”
My mouth parted, “Can’t what?”
“Can’t…” her jaw was slack, “overreact. Okay? Please? Please, please Langdon?”
I shook my head dazedly, “Sure. Sure, I promise.”
She nodded quickly, “Good, because I stole your drugs.”
…
What?
He was staring at me. Not yelling. Not glaring. Not lunging across the table.
I laughed.
Bad move.
I covered my mouth, “Sorry. Sorry, I—I, uh…I did. Unless that bag of stolen benzos in your packet wasn’t yours. Which…it might?”
I tilted my head hopefully.
He moved slowly and deliberately. His hand carefully pushed my glass of wine back to me.
“Go ahead and finish that, Melissa.”
His voice was quiet. Deliberate.
I took it, hands wrapped around it.
“Go on,” he said softly, “Drink that down. And when you’re done with that, you’re going to explain.”
Gulping wine is bitter and painful. Your head spins and every instinct tells you to throw it back up, to get it out of your mouth before the dryness drains every ounce of saliva from your mouth. But it can be done.
I set the empty glass down, head thick as honey and my cheeks burning with alcohol flush.
He sat back, leisurely stretching his arms behind his head, “Tell me.”
“I felt it,” I said, “The pills. Against your leg, when I bumped into you. It’s not hard to pickpocket.”
“So you stole from me,” he said, “Pain medication, that I need for my injury. You stole those?”
“You’re taking a mixture of benzos,” I said, “whatever you can get your hands on. You’ve been slipping them into patient prescriptions and taking the surplus. Your doctor would’ve given you a stronger dose if he thought you needed it.”
“Do I show the symptoms, Mel?” He asked, “Aggression, paranoia, irrationality?”
“Yes,” I said abruptly, “You’re hiding it, so no one knows. But it’s going to get worse.”
“If you’re the only one who knows,” he said, tracing the seam of his couch with a finger, “That means you haven’t told anyone. Because you don’t have any evidence.”
“I’m not looking for evidence,” I said, quavery, “I’m trying to help you, not fire you.”
“You weren’t helping,” he said in a deadly tone, “when you stole from me. You’re sending me into withdrawal–” He cut himself off, hand rubbing his face.
…
“Tremors?” she asked gently, kitten soft.
“Yes,” I gritted out. My entire body was flexed, trembling like a live wire.
“Flop sweat? Nausea? Paranoia? Aggression?”
“Do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
I leaned forwards, “Come here and see how aggressive I am.”
She receded back into the couch and I felt something sharp in my throat. “I am your senior resident,” I said slowly, “What I do to moderate my pain is none of your business. So I’m going to let this go–”
She opened her mouth to argue and I gave her a look.
“– and since you have not notified a superior in days, I should tell you that any suspicion of your involvement will be happily corroborated by me,” my eyes were narrowed, my knee bouncing against a cramping muscle, “I will not hesitate to destroy your career, if you destroy mine.”
I was ripping her to pieces, I could see that. Her chin was trembling, hands balled into small fists by her side. Treacherously innocent eyes. I could snap her in half, here and now. I wanted to. I wanted to scare her. I wanted her to know what it felt to have your body betray you, to have your mind fog in agony, to feel every muscle contract in desperation.
I glanced down, “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not looking at you like that,” she said, “I shouldn’t even stand to look at you.”
But she was. And she wouldn’t look away.
…
He didn’t know how monstrous he looked. Hair in his face, grinding his teeth, shaking. The second he didn’t have to hide it, some hideous creature crawled out of his mouth and sat where he sat, talking in his voice. But not his words.
My eyes were hot.
Not his words.
“You’re not going to go on like this,” I said, sick with disgust, “You’re going to be the senior resident I deserve. You’re going to be the one I remember.”
He laughed, bloodshot eyes studying me like an insect he wanted to tear the legs off of, “You’ve only ever known me high. I’d say you prefer it.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” I said, nodding, “But I’m going to make you well. And you’re going to do what I say.”
He stood up, “I think you should leave.”
“You sure?”
He turned back to me, eyes darting to the bag in my hand.
Six pretty blue pills gleamed in the low light.
I should have been good. I should have been better.
“That’s cruel,” he said, voice low, “Especially for you.”
I smiled weakly, “Maybe I like you high.”
Six foot something, six feet too tall. Muscle strong and strong jaw, proud features and shattered pride in his eyes. Someone could bottle the blue in his eyes and make a fortune that he’d ruin himself on.
I raised the bag higher.
…
The unfortunate effect of Benzos is that she makes you reckless. Unpredictable. You want to be unpredictable, you want to be exciting.
I was a Jack of All Trades. I was her wild card. I was interesting to her. I was ‘come to his door, hair messy and makeup smeared from a first date, holding cupcakes’ interesting. I was the best thing she had to benzos.
And that was the problem.
There, dangling in her hand, was something comforting. Something to take the edge off. But it wouldn’t. Not really. Because when I stopped trembling, when I wasn’t shaking in agony, she’d have me. Eating out of the palm of her hand, all for the next fix.
She’d get tired of me. She’d leave.
I was needier than that. I was smarter than that.
“You’re giving me hell,” I said, “You’re tormenting me, just to feel better about yourself.”
“I’m going to make you better,” she said.
“Addicts don’t cure addicts,” I snapped, spitting the word out, “And you’re still sitting there, waiting, wishing I’d do something desperate.”
“I don’t have to wait,” she said simply, “You’re being avoidant.”
“You’re ignoring the obvious,” I said, walking to her, “You should have reported me. Finding it a difficult habit to quit, Melissa? I can sympathize,” I nodded patronizingly, “I really can.”
“You want pills.”
“And you want me,” I crouched in front of her, sitting with her ankles tight, “just as I am.”
“You’re an addict,” she said, jaw tight, “You’re not going to be an addict.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, “But not exactly sober, right?”
“No pills.”
“No pills.” I repeated mindlessly, “Just you, hmm?”
…
He was giving me contact high.
Pupils dilated so far that the darkness almost swallowed up the blue. Jaw slack and hands shaking against the couch. Trembling like a live current.
It was the eyes. Those sky blue eyes.
My favorite: robins egg blue.
I reached out and took him by the chin, “Open.”
He did so unquestionably and I smiled. He did the same.
“You’re not going to die,” I said, “You might wish you were dead, but you won’t.” I put a pill on his tongue, smoothed his hair back as he blinked slowly, “You need to settle down a little.”
He swallowed dry, “Just what the doctor ordered.”
“I didn’t order you.” I blinked.
“Whatever you say,” he said, hand sliding up into hair and pulling me into a kiss.
…
Bookish type. Blonde hair and Irish sweater, chipped nail polish, smeared mascara. Goner, gone since she walked through the door. Doomed since the day I met her.
I craved her, wanted her like something I’d had before. My first drink. My first French kiss. She was better than my first vice.
Running my fingers through the softness of her hair, mouth open and inhaling the taste of her, dragging down to her jaw, to the smell of her neck. Perfume, sweet, and beneath it, chemicals bittersweet. I’d eat her if I could fit my teeth around her.
I could. If I wanted to.
I wanted to.
I wanted my arms wrapped around her waist, gripping her hips as I bore over her, face in her neck. I wanted her to stay in my apartment, stay on that couch, stay right where I needed her to be. I wanted to relapse on something new.
I got what I wanted.
…
“Hey Langdon,” I said he kissed my wrist, pressing it against his face, cupping his cheek.
“Mhmm.”
I fished in my purse, finding the clasp as he moved, sitting down on the purse and pulling me into his lap. He kissed me again and I kissed him back. Eyes closed, going by feel.
“This is going really well,” I whispered.
“You think so?” He asked, for once not being sarcastic.
“Yeah,” I said vacantly as he pushed my neckline to one side, “I didn’t expect you to be this nice about it.”
“I’m not being nice.”
I smiled, “Yeah, you are. Placebos are a bitch move to pull.”
He wasn’t paying attention. I grabbed him by the hair, pulling back until his dazed eyes focused on me.
“What?” He asked, smiling softly, “Something wrong.”
“Placebos.” I said firmly, jamming a needle into his neck.
He flinched, grabbing my wrist and ripping it away from him, “What did you just—“
He pried my fingers open and studied the label.
“Phenobarbital,” I was breathing heavily, “No more benzos for you.”
“You just—“
“Placebos,” I interrupted, “But you’re not getting out of this so easily.”
He rubbed his neck, “You’re detoxing me.”
“No seizures,” I murmured, “No spasms.”
“Pain.” He corrected, “Agony.”
I slid my arms around his neck. He gripped my elbow. “It’s going to hurt,” I said sympathetically, “But it’s good for you.”
I held up a pill, “Open.”
He smiled, grudgingly, “After you.”
I placed a pill on my own tongue.
And swallowed.